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“This will feel warm,” he warned, scooping a generous amount onto his fingers. “Perhaps even hot. It is intended to increase blood flow to the damaged tissue.”

“I know what it does,” Nicholas muttered. “Lady Trafford has been torturing me with similar concoctions for weeks.”

“Then you also know it works.” Angelo placed his hands on Nicholas’s calf, beginning with gentle probing to assess the tissue. The muscle was rigid, locked up from days in the carriage. “I can feel the tension here. And here.” He pressed carefully at specific points, watching Nicholas’s face for a reaction.

Nicholas’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Angelo began working the liniment into the leg with firm, methodical strokes. This was familiar territory. He had spent years at the farmacia in Florence, learning from his uncles how to treat everything from minor aches to chronic ailments. The human body was a landscape he knew how to read, how to navigate.

“You are too rough,” Nicholas complained after several minutes of silence.

“I am exactly as rough as is necessary,” Angelo replied calmly, continuing his work. “Lady Trafford is gentler, sì? More delicate in her touch?”

Nicholas scowled. “I prefer it when Lady Trafford does it.”

Angelo could not suppress the small smile that tugged at his lips. “Sì, of course. Lady Trafford is a beautiful woman,” he responded in a pragmatic tone, digging his thumbs into a particularly tight knot of muscle.

“What are you implying?” Nicholas demanded, his eyes snapping to Angelo’s face.

“You are a healthy young male. Having the charming Lady Trafford massage your leg is a tempting prospect, but as skilled as she is in the healing arts, I think you forget⁠—”

“What?”

“I am an experienced farmasista … pharmacist. Not just any pharmacist, but one from Florence. We are the best in the world.”

It was a statement of simple fact, delivered without arrogance. The di Medici family had patronized Florentine pharmacists for centuries. The city’s apothecaries were renowned throughout Europe for their skill and knowledge. Angelo had been trained by masters of the craft.

Just then, Angelo felt a whisper of air, the sensation of someone watching him closely. He stilled, his hands pausing mid-stroke on Nicholas’s leg.

The feeling was unmistakable. It was the same prickling awareness he had experienced in the Hall of Reflections. The sense of eyes upon him, observing his every movement.

Angelo’s gaze swept the room, landing on the decorative iron grates set into the wall near the fireplace. They, too, were positioned oddly, he noted. Not quite at the right height or placement for purely aesthetic purposes. And the darkness behind them seemed deeper somehow, suggesting considerable space rather than solid wall.

He stared at the grates, his eyes narrowing in perplexment.

“What?” Nicholas asked, following Angelo’s gaze. “What are you staring at?”

Angelo blinked, pulling his attention back to his work. “Nothing. Just … the ironwork is unusual. Quite elaborate for ventilation.”

“It is a drafty old pile of stones,” Nicholas said dismissively. “Probably riddled with passages and vents to keep the place from filling with smoke. Now, are you going to finish, or shall I suffer in suspense?”

Angelo resumed his massage, but a part of his mind remained fixed on those grates. On the sensation of being watched. He was certain someone was there, behind the decorative iron.

Who are you? Angelo thought, working his way up toward Nicholas’s knee. And why do you hide?

“You are distracted,” Nicholas accused. “If you are going to torture me, at least have the courtesy to give it your full attention.”

“My apologies,” Angelo murmured, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. “The muscle here is particularly tight. This may be uncomfortable.”

“Everything is uncomfortable,” Nicholas muttered, but he endured the treatment with gritted teeth as Angelo worked through the worst of the tension.

They continued in silence, the only sounds the whistle of wind through the grates and Nicholas’s occasional sharp intake of breath whenever Angelo hit a particularly sensitive spot. But Angelo could not shake the feeling of being observed. It settled over his skin, raising the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Angelo sat back. “That is enough for tonight. The muscle needs time to respond to the treatment. Too much at once will only cause additional strain.”

Nicholas immediately began pulling his leg back, reaching for his discarded clothing with obvious relief. “Thank God. I was beginning to think you intended to flay me alive.”

“The treatment only works if it reaches the deep tissue,” Angelo replied, wiping his hands on the cloth he had brought. “Lady Trafford has been too gentle with you. The leg requires aggressive intervention after years of neglect.”